


The Dead of Night

by sleeperbyday



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Insomnia, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trauma, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeperbyday/pseuds/sleeperbyday
Summary: Linhardt struggles to process the events of his first real battle.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	The Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> I was quite proud of the angst I wrote last time, so I wanted to try doing it again but a bit differently.
> 
> Set just after Red Canyon Dominance and inspired by Linhardt's heartbreaking reaction after getting his first kill.
> 
> Note: I was a bit iffy about tagging this with PTSD because I don't have PTSD, nor do I want to assume what having this illness is like but I couldn't think of a more accurate or descriptive tag for Linhardt's experience here. I hope I don't offend or upset anyone with my depiction and most importantly, I am not a doctor.

_I… I killed them. What have I done? The blood…_

* * *

  
Linhardt couldn’t sleep.

It was the first time he had ever found himself in this situation; lying wide awake at what was sure to be an obscenely early hour, desperately willing himself to drift off but to no avail. The first time he was at the mercy of insomnia, rather than willingly spending all night reading or pondering his research. Linhardt wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and put the day behind him but in truth, he was more awake than he had ever been in his entire life.

He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the mission earlier that day, and yet sleep simply wouldn’t come. And why would it, _how_ would it, when every time Linhardt closed his eyes he was back in the Red Canyon, reliving the moment he _killed_ someone? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bandit fall to the ground, unmoving and heard the poor man's agonised cry as Linhardt’s magic drained his life away. He felt fear and disgust grasp him like a vice, consuming him, as the realisation of what he had done hit him. He smelled blood in the air, tasted bile before he keeled over and emptied his stomach. This was _his_ doing. _He_ had done this. He may not have been wielding the same brutish weapons his classmates were but there was blood on his hands nonetheless.

At the foul memory, Linhardt’s stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten since returning to the monastery, not trusting himself to keep anything down. Caspar was probably going to question him about it tomorrow but Linhardt would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

_Caspar…_

Thinking about his friend and classmate, Linhardt’s stomach settled but his mind was consumed by a fresh wave of chilling dread. He remembered how he was unable to look away as Caspar rushed one of the bandits. The young man had charged forward, howling and hollering like a child at play, and buried his axe in the bandit’s side. It was over in an instant. The bandit heaved a strangled gasp then collapsed. Caspar didn’t flinch all the while, simply planting his foot on the dead bandit’s back to gain the leverage to pull his axe out as a sick, wet cracking noise rang out. Then he turned and a raw, paralysing horror crept up Linhardt’s spine and settled into his heart.

Caspar’s face and uniform were stained red with blood and he wore a steely, determined expression, not dissimilar to the one he wore in class when attempting to solve a particularly difficult problem. And all he had to say about it was “Are all real battles this exciting? Come on, let’s get on to the next one!”

In bed, Linhardt shivered and curled in on himself, eyes wide with terror. He had never seen his friend look so ferocious, so _monstrous_.

Caspar was _having fun_. He had ruthlessly and without hesitation taken a man’s life and wanted to go and do it again immediately after. The thought shook Linhardt to the core and he found himself rooted to the ground, positively frozen with fear. He had expected such barbaric, such revolting acts from Edelgard and Hubert, from Petra and even Ferdinand, but not his best friend whom he had known since childhood. Caspar was boisterous, brash and loved a good fight but even he wasn’t capable of such senseless violence… was he?

At that moment, Linhardt’s view of the Officer’s Academy and even the Church of Seiros and Lady Rhea herself changed. He had never been particularly devout and didn’t quite care for the academy’s teachings but now he regret ever coming to Garreg Mach. Those bandits might have been causing trouble but they didn’t deserve to die like that. They were just regular people who had fallen on hard times. Hard times that were a harsh reality for hundreds, _thousands_ of people, that could become a reality for anyone if they were unlucky or unwise. Where was the sense, the morality, in sending students barely on the cusp of adulthood to kill them?

Still, he couldn’t afford to simply stand there forever. The sooner the mission was over, the sooner he could turn his back on the grisly scene before him and attempt to forget about it. The worst part was over, it had to be. He did what he had to to make the job easier for his classmates, now he was free to sit on the sidelines and heal his ally’s wounds from afar. Safely away from the blood and carnage, just as he should be.

Of course, that was a foolish and naive thought.

He didn’t see the archer, almost invisible from where he was perched precariously near the chasm. When an arrow flew past his shoulder, Linhardt whirled around, letting out a sharp cry of alarm as panic took over, and unleashed a Wind spell before he could think twice. It didn't kill the bandit, but it surprised him enough for him to lose his balance and plunge from the cliffside into Goddess-knows-what lie below.

Linhardt stood frozen in place, arms still uselessly extended to where the bandit had been. He felt lightheaded and short of breath, unable to drag enough air into his lungs. Shock pulsed through his limbs in waves, setting his nerves alight. He had killed _again_. He had spun and attacked that archer as easily as he turned a page or signed his name and could only watch in stunned silence as he fell to his death.

Linhardt’s breathing slowed. He slowly lowered his arms, face carefully blank but a hair’s breadth away from cracking. He watched with eyes that didn’t see as his classmates swarmed the bandit leader and pretended he didn’t hear the man’s scream echo through the canyon seconds after. He jumped when Caspar suddenly appeared in front of him, eagerly chattering about how cool taking out the bad guy was and told himself it was because of his friend’s lack of volume control. 

Caspar rambled the whole walk back to the monastery, not noticing the vacant expression or abnormal paleness of Linhardt’s face. When they returned, Linhardt excused himself from the post-mission-briefing with the excuse that he needed a nap. Normally he would have just slept in the classroom but then again, normally he wouldn’t have killed two people.

That was where he currently found himself, hours later but no closer to sleep. Linhardt had lost track of how many times he had relived the ordeal. He tucked his head under the covers. It was childish and did little to calm his mind but it was all he could do. No matter what he did or what he forced himself to think about, the Red Canyon crept into his mind over and over. He was utterly powerless to simply turn his mind off and make it stop.

Make it stop showing him bloody sights he saw with his own eyes. Make it stop repeating screams he heard with his own ears. Make it stop reminding him of the deaths he caused with his own hands. Make it stop replicating the revulsion and regret and fear he felt at his own actions, raw and stinging and _real_ every time.

Linhardt killed people that day. He had killed a man for the first time, then the second and he would likely have to do it many more times at this twisted academy.

He didn’t sleep that night. Once the sun rose, he dragged himself to class like he did every other morning, movements barely more sluggish than normal. If any of the Black Eagles noticed that he stayed awake through all of Byleth’s lecture, they didn’t say anything about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some feedback for me if you enjoyed it! I'm still trying to improve how I write emotional works :’)


End file.
